Second Coming
by Fastslayne
Summary: Thorin died after the Battle of the Five Armies. But being dead, and staying dead, are two very different things. Or: "How Bilbo and CO convinced Thranduil to save their leader's life, and Thorin is forced to live out his life as the King Under the Mountain. Living with the mantle of king is a lot harder than dying with it."
1. Prologue

Prologue

He was not supposed to be alive.

That was his first coherent thought, as he came awake all at once and sat bolt upright. Drawing in great lungful's of air, he looked wildly about. There was a low fire burning in a hearth across from him, and the soft flicker of candle flames were licking walls of stone. Walls he did not recognize.

_Where am I? _

Images began to flash through his mind. Shiny metal scales, a terrible hissing voice, teeth like razor blades…a dragon. _Smaug_. The dragon cloaked in gold, roaring out of the mountain. The great beast falling from the sky and into the lake below. The relief he had felt then, and the sorrow for the people burned alive in Laketown. Short-lived, that sorrow. Replaced by the gold lust rushing in, choking him, drowning him so much more effectively than the liquid gold had drowned Smaug.

_Was it all a dream? _ He shook his head as if to clear it, causing long unkempt hair to brush against his bare shoulders. The sensation startled him. He jerked, and pain bloomed under his ribs, so intense it clouded his vision with red and he collapsed backwards. Strange. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt pain.

Except he did remember, didn't he? So much pain, and the least of it physical.

_Dead._ _ My nephews are dead. _

The images came faster now.

Fili's broken body.

Kili cradled in the she-elf's arms.

Azog before him on the ice. Ice moving beneath him, unstable, he was sure to fall in, but drowning would be sweet if only that scum drowned with him.

A blade slicing through his own chest. He would join his nephews soon.

And yet somehow he'd killed Azog. He had finally stuck down his enemy. And then, miraculously, the hobbit was there.

The flashes of memory stopped whirring before him. He could remember with perfect clarity those last few moments spent with Bilbo.

Lucky, he had felt so lucky. Azog was no more. The mountain had been reclaimed. The one thing left to do was to make amends with the burglar. And he'd been given that chance. Most who died were not so fortunate. To die honorably was all he had ever wished for, and he'd been granted that. He remembered Bilbo crying, pleading with him to live, his voice fading away as a calm, peaceful darkness had enveloped over him. The end had come.

Yet here he was, back in the present. The present where everything hurt.

_I should not be alive_. His mind began screaming it at him, over and over. _This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong._

He felt panic welling in his chest, shortening his breath. He could not calm down. The pain beneath his ribs was excruciating, but he could not stay still. He needed to get out of this bed. Out of this place. He wasn't supposed to be here.

He threw himself from the bed, dizzy with his pain. His bare feet hit cold flagstone and he was upright for a moment before his vision began to swim before him. In that moment, legs locking and consciousness fading, he saw a small shape outlined in the open doorway. A shape with curly hair and over-large feet. A shape that was rushing towards him and calling out.

"Thorin!"

* * *

"Well, Bilbo, whatever did you do to him?"

"Me?" squeaked the hobbit. 'Why, nothing at all! I came into the room to check on him and he was staggering from the bed! How he got out of it in the first place is a mystery. He hasn't moved for weeks."

"He was likely frightened. He should not have woken up alone."

"I know. Thranduil warned us all that he could wake suddenly and that someone ought to be with him. I was only gone a moment, Gandalf, I swear it!

The old wizard gave Bilbo a small smile. "It's alright, Master Baggins. Thorin hasn't done himself any real harm. He is still too weak to do much at all. Come, grab his legs. I shall need your help to lift him back into the bed."

They made quite a pair, the tall wizard and tiny hobbit. They tried to be gentle, but the task could not be accomplished without a bit of jostling. And with each jostle, Thorin let out a low, breathy moan.

"He really has come back to us," said Bilbo, as he struggled to lift Thorin's legs up on to the bed. "What with the noises and all. I didn't quite believe Thranduil when he said he'd healed him. It seems ages since then, and he's been as still and silent as death."

"Lord Thranduil healed his body. The mind and soul take their own time. You must remember, Bilbo, that Thorin had already left this world behind before Thranduil got to him. His soul had to make the decision to journey back."

Bilbo chewed his lip. "Will he remember that? Making the choice, I mean? He did have a choice, didn't he? He wasn't forced to come back?"

Gandalf was silent for a moment as he propped the dwarf's heavy upper body against a pillow. Thorin made another low moan before titling his head to the side and settling into a deeper sleep.

The wizard turned to look at Bilbo.

"He wasn't forced. But if he'll remember…it remains to be seen. He may be quiet unhappy for a while, Bilbo. We must all prepare ourselves for that."

The little hobbit looked haunted as he gazed at the figure in the bed. "Perhaps we shouldn't tell him how we got Thranduil to agree to save him. Just that it was a miracle he's here. Yes I think that's better…"

"Do not be foolish. We will tell him. Thorin may be angry. He may well hate all of us. But if he knows, he will keep on living, Bilbo. And that is the most important thing."

– 1 –


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

_1 year later_

The grass was greener than he'd ever seen it.

Not that he'd ever paid particular attention to the color before. In the past, when he'd looked out from this battlement, he'd been more focused on other matters. How the new ruby mines were faring, for example. Or if his father would praise his improvements to the traditional broadsword. Or, at the end, if his grandfather was well and truly as mad as he seemed.

But he was not the same dwarf he had been then. And wasn't it strange, that the arrival of the dragon, the calamity that followed, and the struggle of years of exile had not served to truly changed him? In truth, the Thorin who fled the Lonely Mountain and the Thorin who led a company to reclaim it had been much the same. He had matured, certainly, and perhaps learnt a bit of humility, but he'd remained as he'd always been—confident, capable, stubborn as the stone he sprang from, and above all, a _dwarf_ lord to his last breath.

But now? His last breath had came and went, and whoever that meddling wizard and accursed elf had brought back from the dead, it wasn't a Thorin he recognized.

For one, he was preoccupied with the color of grass. And not just grass, but all things green and growing. And the feel of wind in his hair, the warmth of sun on his skin? They had ever been background to him, incidental to traveling, not this essential _need _that currently gripped him. Even now, as he breathed in the cool, fresh morning air, as he tasted its sweetness and the tang of rain later to come, he felt his first moments of peace in days.

Why days? Well, a grand council had been held at Erebor, with ambassadors and advisors from the seven dwarf families. The topic of discussion? The line of succession. For in his reclaiming of the mountain, Thorin had managed to kill both himself and his two heirs, and though Thorin had then managed to become un-kilt, well, his nephews had not been so fortunate. And though all the seven families were very happy to see the kingdom of Erebor restored, they were just as anxious to see that it not pass to a cousin who already had his _own_ kingdom, thank you very much.

The fact of the matter was that Thorin was not Durin the Deathless, and would eventually die and stay dead. And before that happened, the dwarf families agreed, he ought to do his duty, marry a noble dwarrowdam, and produce a dwarfling. They would leave the choosing up to him, of course, but they would be sure to bring their daughters and nieces for his review.

And though this resurrected Thorin was much changed in some ways, he had not lost his sense of duty. The idea of marriage and a wife was interminable to him, but the idea of leaving his people without an heir was more so. If he'd been brought back from the dead because his people desperately needed him (as was Gandalf's tale, though he hardly believed it), then he could not and would not deny them this marriage and the hope of procreation that would follow.

That did not change the fact that he, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, was not certain he _could_ procreate. Over the course of this past year, as he'd adjusted to being alive once again, it had become increasingly and terrifyingly clear to him that he was no longer wholly a dwarf. Thorin could not and would not ask the king of elf scum what he'd done to him, but only because he knew without asking what had happened. Somehow, that pointy-eared bastard had made him part pointy-ear himself.

What else could explain his new-found need for fresh air and sunlight? Or his sudden, inexplicable skill with a bow? He'd originally taken up the weapon to honor Kili, but found he could easily and rapidly fire arrows with a precision he'd never before possessed. This, in turn, was likely due to his enhanced eyesight and other senses. He saw further; he ran lighter; he was even slightly taller and leaner of build, though no one but him seemed to have noticed it.

At first, he had convinced himself he was imagining things. _This is a result of being dead_, he told himself. _You were out of your body for some time, and being back in it feels strange_. _You will get used to yourself again._

But time wore on, and the changes in him only became more apparent. He was still a dwarf in many ways; he still loved the feel of stone beneath his feet, the feel of a hammer in his hand and the glint and flash of metal as he sharpened a blade. But extended time in the mountain left him restless. He kept finding excuses to leave, to be outside under the sun and stars.

Not that excuses were hard to come by. Orcs continued to prowl the lands around Erebor, attacking merchants and travelers as they made their way to Dale. The wealth of Erebor was helping to rebuild the once-great city, but it was essential that the trade routes be made safe in order for the city to flourish. So Thorin often rode out from Erebor with Dwalin and other warriors to hunt and kill the foul creatures, and if any in the mountain thought it unnecessarily dangerous for their king to do the work of a common soldier, well, they could hardly say so.

And that was another change in Thorin, one he feared even more than his new elvish tendencies. There was a rage and bloodlust in him that could not be abated. Each slice of an orc neck, each thrust of a blade into their putrid flesh, was more precious to him than veins of gold in stone or the glimmer of starlight on a clear night. He endured the duties of his kingship and ruled when it was required of him, but he took no joy in it. No, his joy was reserved for death. He was happiest with hands coated in black blood and a pile of orc corpses around him. But even that happiness was short-lived. Soon enough, the rage filled him again, a gaping, consuming desire to kill more, and yet more still. If he was to live when his nephews could not, then he would spend that life eviscerating the creatures who had killed them.

Gandalf had told him that Thranduil agreed to save him for one reason—his sanity. Thorin had overcome the gold-sickness, showing strength of mind and power over the evil of the dragon. They could not be sure that Dain, or whoever took rulership of the mountain, would be able to do the same. The darkness was growing; foul things were creeping forth. It would go very ill for all peoples of Middle-Earth, even the elves of Mirkwood, if the new King Under the Mountain fell prey to madness and evil.

So Thranduil had brought Thorin back from death. But if his strength of mind had been the reason, then the joke was on elvenking. Thorin was clinging to his sanity by a thread; he was always a hairbreadth away from leaving Erebor and never coming back. He would live in the woods and he would murder orcs until one of them finally killed him in return. And then there would be no more of this strange second life. He would not live in the body of some mutant being he did not understand. He would be with Fili and Kili. He would be with his father and grandfather. And the pain of this world would no longer be his to bear.

_Duty_, he reminded himself. _Duty and honor. They still mean something to you._

If only the words didn't sound so hollow, even in his head.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 3

"My lady, we really ought to catch up with the others. We've lingered too long, and these woods aren't safe." The young guard looked quickly about, shifting his axe from hand to hand. There was something off about the ruins they were standing in. Ranulf would never admit to being nervous, but he was nervous all the same. An orc pack had attacked their caravan two nights prior, and victory had been a near thing. He did not like to think about what would happen if he had to face a group of orcs alone.

The Lady Penelope did not seem to share his concern. Her face scrunched in concentration, she was studiously copying runes etched into the ancient slabs of stone into her notebook, muttering to herself all the while.

"My lady?" Ranulf asked again, louder this time.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Ranulf!" Penelope looked up from her scribbles and gave him a sheepish grin. "You know how I get when I'm concentrating. What were you saying?"

"That we really should be leaving. I don't mean to rush you, but it's been a full half turn since we stopped here. I promised your father I would not allow us to fall too far behind."

Penelope sighed. "I still do not see why they could not halt here with us. We've been traveling for a fortnight. Why not spare a few hours to explore to the first interesting thing we've come across!"

"Your sister, I mean the Lady Rosamund, is not handling the journey well. Your father is concerned for her delicate health."

"Oh, come off it, Ranulf!" Penelope could not help the derisive snort that escaped her. "The Lady Roasmund is hardly ill, and we both know it. My father knows it, as well. He just approves of her motives for hastening the journey. The sooner Rosamund arrives in Erebor, the sooner she can entice the King into marrying her, and the sooner we can all go home."

Ranulf studied his boots. "As you say, my lady. I'll not speak ill of your lady sister."

"Not to me, at least," Penelope grinned. "In any case, I suppose you're right. We should be going. Let me finish transcribing these last few lines and then we'll press on."

Penelope bent to her task, and Ranulf took a quick moment to look closer at the runes on the stone. They were certainly unlike any other runes he had ever seen. The markings were faint, faded with years of exposure to wind and rain, barely discernable as they swooped and curved in swirling loops across the stone. Lady Penelope was something of an artist herself, and had done a fair job capturing the pattern with her charcoals.

"I wonder what they mean," Ranulf said softly. He could read and write, but only in Khuzduhl. The runes did not look dwarvish to him, of that he was reasonably certain.

"It's some form of elvish, but ancient. From the first Age, I would guess. These lands were some of the first to be settled, did you know that?"

Without looking up from her work, Penelope continued to ramble on about the first age, never noticing that Ranulf had fallen silent. When she finally looked up, it was to find him motionless on the ground before her, a black-fletched arrow sticking out of his chest.

She screamed.

* * *

A high-pitched shriek broke the calm of the forest. Thorin immediately jumped down from his perch in the trees. He'd been tracking an orc pack for two days, and had been lying in wait, certain the foul creatures were about to crash their way towards him. Unfortunately, it seemed they had fallen upon someone else first.

Wasting no time, he drew Kili's old bow from his back and ran through the underbrush, though his heavy boots made hardly any noise as he advanced. Not much of a perk for living as an elf-dwarf mutant, but it certainly had its uses.

The enhanced eyesight also didn't hurt. Before he physically reached the clearing, Thorin could clearly see the situation he was about to encounter. A well-dressed young woman had her back to a stone ruin, with a pack of seven orcs closing in around her. A guard lay still at her feet, felled by a great black arrow. Whatever questions he had about what a young lady of obvious means was doing in the middle of orc-infested woods would have to wait. The girl would be dead in a matter of moments.

Two more strides, and he would be in the clearing. Without pausing, Thorin drew an arrow from his quiver, knocked it to the bow, and released his shot. The largest orc in the group roared with rage as the arrow shot through his breastplate. Thorin dispatched two more arrows and the orc dropped to the ground with a thud. The other orcs hissed and screeched and turned wildly about, momentarily forgetting about their victim as they searched for the yet un-seen threat. As Thorin approached the pack, he noted that the girl had the good sense to scramble out of sight.

He re-slung the blow across his back and drew Orcrist quickly from its sheath at his hip, thrusting the sword into the gut of another orc as he crashed into the clearing. He felt a grim satisfaction as he stared into the outraged eyes of the monster, knowing the last thing the orc would see before death was his face. Thorin pulled his sword from the creature's belly just in time to parry a blow as another orc sprung upon him. He swung viscously, Orcrist ringing clearly as the elvish blade met the shoddy iron of the orc's sword. The orc met his blows stroke for stroke, but tired quickly, and Thorin saw his opening. He made a quick faint, and as the orc lunged forward, he brought his blade down across its neck.

Bloodlust sung in his veins, sharpening his senses even more; he was certain he could actually smell the scent of fear rolling off the other orcs. And there was another scent, separate from the orcs. He recognized it is as fear, too, but it was sweeter, less foul. The young woman. She had hidden herself, but she could not hide the smell of her fear. If he did not kill the orcs, they would be able to scent her out easily enough.

With that in mind, he turned to face the next orc. He needed to kill them, and quickly, before one of them took it into its head to run off and get reinforcements.


End file.
